child of grace
by the Ambassador
Summary: The musings of a tactician, during battle.


A/N: Another weird oneshot from me, who'da thunk?

This had its origin in that chapter which I cannot remember the name or number of, when Lucia and Bastian joined up with the army, and Geoffrey was holding a castle gate against a bunch of Daeins, and I had a very clear mental image suddenly, as I sent Soren through a thicket to get in a long-range shot at the enemy commander. That image became this fic. More or less. The title is from the song that was stuck in my head while I wrote it, which incidentally always did remind me of that boy...

I don't own Fire Emblem.

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**child of grace**

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_**i was born a child of grace**_

_**nothing else about the place**_

_**everything was ugly but your beautiful face**_

_**that left me no illusion**_

_**i saw you in the curve of the moon**_

_**in the shadow cast across my room**_

_**you heard me in my tune**_

_**when i just heard confusion**_

_**-all because of you, u2**_

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I guess people wonder about me a lot.

I'm a little bit of a mystery to most, the silent boy in black with the milk-souring glare, the tactician mage, Ike's second shadow. The one who's always on the outside looking in, and sometimes that hurts when I think about it but really I don't think I could handle being any other way. I'm too used to being me. Maybe I'm just a masochist, but if I woke up one day with no pain in my soul or mark on my forehead I don't think I'd recognise the face in the mirror anymore.

Right now I'm crawling on my belly through the undergrowth, getting poked by low branches and covered in mud and soaked through by the rain that's blattering down constantly. I've got a Blizzard tome stuffed down the front of my tunic to save it from the mud and water, I can hear enemy wyvern riders a few hundred yards behind me who _hopefully_ haven't noticed me yet, I'm separated from the main army by both a rapid-flowing river and several enemy soldiers, and I'm as happy as I've ever been in my life.

People see a child when they look at me, and wonder how someone so young can fight like I do, strategise like I do. They wonder where I get my ruthlessness from. I could tell them(if I felt like talking about it, which I don't)that I learned early on that being ruthless is the only way to survive in this world. So that's a question easily answered; one that's a bit more puzzling is why I _enjoy_ it so much. I can't answer that one. All I know is that when I'm chanting up a whirlwind or shouting orders at the top of my voice over the din of the battlefield, I feel alive. Fierce and strong and wild and happy, as if this was the purpose I was made for, as if I have a purpose.

I don't think it's bloodlust; at least, I hope it's not. I don't find anything fun about watching people get hurt. Not out of battle, at any rate. But fighting's different.

It's a bit like being drunk(yes, I have been, once, and no, it's not an experience I plan to repeat), except that I'm _more_ in control of my body, not less. I push through the last couple of bushes; I can see him now, the enemy commander. Across the river from me, but thanks to my Blizzard tome(and what a prize _that_ was to find)within my reach. Just about.

I reach down the neck of my tunic, draw out the book that's been pressing uncomfortably into my stomach for the last hour or so; it's a bit damp, but still good. There's a hawthorn tree nearby with a good, sturdy trunk, and plenty of low-hanging branches to hide under-I can just about fit under there, if I kneel down. There are advantages to being small and skinny. I lean against the tree-trunk, and flip open the tome.

The Heron language is complex, really complex, and I know I can't understand more than the slightest fraction of it, but once you know the language, spells are very simple. I brush the spidery writing with my fingertip, and the characters shimmer pale, pale green; I begin to read them out loud, and feel the familiar thrum of the magic building in my throat. The spirits respond, and my voice echoes, it sounds like there's a whole chorus of me; five or six or seven Sorens sitting under this hawthorn, chanting out the spell. The thought makes me smile wryly. One of me is far too many already.

The enemy commander can't hear or see me; he suspects nothing, as of yet. I raise my head from the tome and focus on him, narrow my eyes and deliberately pronounce the last word of the incantation. A laugh, a shout of triumph-the spell is set loose, and my lips curve upwards in what Ike calls my plotting-your-downfall smile as conjured ice and wind slam into my target.

Chaos erupts across the river. The commander's not dead-_damn it_-injured, yes, but not dead. There are four good shots left in my Blizzard tome; four chances to bring him down, but they know where I am now and their ballistae are swinging round to face me and _I don't have time_.

The first shot misses completely, snagged in the hawthorn's branches. The second passes so close I can _feel_ it, pins me to the ground by the hem of my cloak, and I yank myself free hurriedly, leaving a scrap of black cloth pinned to the mud by the huge, blunt, wicked bolt. Still, the trees will protect me from missiles, and I might have a chance to finish the job-it's what I was banking on-but I can hear the wyvern riders gaining on me from behind.

Magic beats wyverns, true, but in the end force of numbers can be enough. I could take one wyvern rider without raising a sweat, two likewise, but not four or five at once. And they move fast enough that the range advantage of Blizzard is no advantage at all.

So I scuttle out from under the hawthorn and bolt, running madly up along the riverside to try and reach my allies, my army, run, run,_ run_ and trip over tree roots and stumble and nearly fall flat on my face and desperately fumble for my Elwind tome, but the leader, the Wyvern Lord, has made a crashing landing next to me and there's _pain_ in my side, blood on my robes, and I gasp and think_ fucking bastards_ and _I don't want to die here_ and _Ike, Ashera, Ike_, and then I don't think at all, work entirely on automatic as I pull a vulnerary from my pocket, yank out the cork and gulp it down, while my other hand closes-at last-on Elwind.

The mad, fierce joy rises in me again, like the vulnerary coursing through me, like sunlight, like the light from Rhys's staff. Like a kiss. The spear makes another stab towards me but I'm ready now and I dodge, then shout out the Elwind incantation at the top of my voice, windmilling my arms about madly, and I bet I look like a total idiot right about now. Not that I care, and anyway, the Wyvern Lord looks like a bigger idiot than me now. A _dead_ idiot. Another stabbing spear, pain again undoing the work of the vulnerary, another chant/shout/song, and I'm air, I'm lightning, I am the spirits that whisper around me I am the words of the singing spell I am the Word-

And then there's another voice of many voices chanting, I'm not alone. A tall man with an actor's voice, smooth and rich like brandy-cream. And there's a shimmer of fast-moving blue and white that resolves into a woman with long shining hair and a long shining sword. Not Daein, not by their dress, and not by how they are helping me, without even being asked, joining my fight and taking down the remaining wyvern riders. But not from the army, either. It actually takes me a few seconds to realise that, to realise that I don't recognise them; I'm still somewhere else in my mind, high on magic and desperate ecstasy.

"Are you all right?"

The last of the wyvern riders is dead, and the woman is talking to me. It takes a moment for her words to register. "You looked in need of help. I am Lucia. This is Bastian. We're retainers of Princess Elincia.

I blink, shaking my head, coming back down to earth. "Soren," I say, thinking, _oh yes. Soren. That's me. When did _that_ happen, and why wasn't I informed? _"Commander Ike's tactician**_." _**_Whoever that is, whatever that is. Right now it's a person with a job to do. So I should do it._

But though I'm talking sensibly, seeing with only my eyes now, hearing with only my ears, though I'm firmly in my body, spirit cased in meat, this is part of the joy too, this new development in the battle. I'm still on the edge, till this battle's over. I'm still gambling with Death, and winning. I'm still dancing.

_**

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**_

_**For 'Kierkegaarde'**_

_**Once more with feeling-**_

_**Happy birthday to you.**_


End file.
